


You Play The Melody To My Heart

by just_folie_a_deux_it



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 12:12:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13481232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_folie_a_deux_it/pseuds/just_folie_a_deux_it
Summary: Brendon wants to be a professional singer, but doesn't want to sing in front of anyone. Enter: his new vocal coach Ryan, a senior who will be going away soon. Falling in love would be disastrous, right? That doesn't stop Brendon.





	You Play The Melody To My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> A prize for https://20thcenturyanime.tumblr.com/ who won first prize for my follower contest on tumblr!  
> Also, I've opened writing commissions and set up a ko-fi! If you like my writing go ahead and visit
> 
> here: http://just-folie-a-deux-it.tumblr.com/post/169282214885
> 
> or here: https://www.ko-fi.com/cmarkwill
> 
> to support me!
> 
> Also, also I wanna thank https://thereadingbookworm.tumblr.com/ for giving me the title!

Brendon hitches his bag a little higher up on his shoulder, trying to angle it any way he can that doesn’t involve it smacking painfully against his leg as he runs; the rhythmic _thud_ it makes against his thigh with each step resounds in his ears, completely in sync with the smack of his feet against the pavement. He’s so fucking late.

As much as he’d like to claim that it isn’t his fault, he is the one who stayed up all night trying to work out the melody for a new song he’s been writing, and he _is_ the one who hit snooze on his alarm...six times. So now he’s going to be late to his first private singing lesson, and his tutor will probably hate him forever, and then he’ll never be able to sing so he’ll never be a famed musician and he’ll never get out of this godforsaken town.

As he scrambles up the stairs, panting for breath and clutching at his chest, Brendon pushes the front doors of his school open and prays silently that his tutor will at least let him try to explain. He needs this credit to graduate, and he’ll never even stand a _chance_ at a good fine arts college if he’s never even had singing lessons.

“I’m sorry I’m late!” he cries, shoving the classroom door open and stumbling in.

“No problem, you got in just after I did.” A small laugh sounds, almost sheepish.

Brendon looks around, adjusting his bag and standing up straight. There’s a boy across the room with dark brown hair that falls in his eyes, wearing a tight black t-shirt and rummaging through his backpack.

“My alarm didn’t go off…” Brendon trails off, tilting his head at this strange boy who’s taking out a notebook and some pens from his bag. He looks a little older than Brendon, but not by much, and certainly not old enough to be a teacher.

The boy snorts, flashing half a grin that’s just slightly crooked. “So, you’re Brendon then?”

Brendon nods. “Yeah, that’s me. I’m Brendon, uh, and you are—?”

“Ryan,” the boy says, idly flipping through his notebook. “I’m your vocal coach.”

“ _You?_ ” Brendon blinks; he immediately regrets saying anything. “Not that that’s a bad thing!” he adds quickly. “You’re probably great, I didn’t mean—”

Ryan laughs and waves a hand. “No, I know. You expected someone older. Principal Hubler asked Mrs. Biss to start having students tutor other students—something about peer support or some bullshit—and since I’m a senior, she chose me for you,” he explains.

“No, that’s totally cool,” Brendon says, setting his bag against the wall and walking forward. “I just need some, you know, guidance or whatever.” The words sound far more awkward once they’re out of his mouth. He rubs the back of his neck, looking down at the torn up Converse on his feet.

“That’s what I’m here for,” Ryan hums, sitting down at the bench of the grand piano in the center of the room. “Let’s start with some scales, alright? I figured we’d see where you are and go from there.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Brendon agrees, walking over to stand by the piano and Ryan.

“Okay, just follow my lead,” Ryan murmurs, fingers gently fluttering along the surface of the keys before he begins to play.

\---

“Straight, Bren, you’ve got to stand up straight, don’t slouch,” Ryan calls over the sound of Brendon’s voice. “Don’t get tense though, remember, stay relaxed.”

Brendon flashes a thumbs up as he continues to belt out a middle C. It’s been two months since he started lessons with Ryan, and while the older boy is a far stricter teacher than Brendon had first anticipated, he’s definitely helped Brendon improve by leaps and bounds. It’s through a tough schedule that involves Brendon doing vocal exercises in the morning before he leaves for school, once he meets Ryan for lessons to warm up, after school when he gets home, and then before he goes to bed. In addition, he’s only drinking water and herbal teas now, and Ryan has Brendon sounding far better than he could ever have dreamed.

“Don’t suck in your stomach, Brendon. No one’s going to care if you look skinny when you sound like a cat being neutered,” Ryan hums, tapping Brendon’s abdomen with a ruler.

Brendon rolls his eyes, though he relaxes his stomach; Ryan’s always overdramatic when it comes to correcting him, but he also hasn’t been wrong yet.

Finally, Brendon exhales and sucks in a breath.

“Okay, that one lasted nine seconds. You’re getting better.” Ryan smiles.

Brendon grins back, his cheeks brightening; maybe Ryan will think it’s just because he’s out of breath. “Yeah? I guess you are an alright teacher then,” he teases.

Ryan snorts and shakes his head. “‘Alright’ he calls me. ‘Alright’, and I suppose Freddie Mercury was just ‘alright’?”

Brendon arches a brow. “You’re really comparing your teaching skills to the lead singer of Queen?”

“I am the champion,” Ryan says simply, grabbing his sheet music off of the piano and stuffing it into his bag.

Brendon laughs softly, shaking his head and going to grab his bag as well. “Yeah, if you say so.”

“Hey, c’mon. You could be the Bowie to my Mercury. Let’s put this school under pressure.” Ryan grins, running a hand through his hair and then smoothing down his bangs.

Brendon blinks and swallows, praying that his face doesn’t look as burning red as it feels. He can never read Ryan—half the time it seems like they’re flirting and the other half has him convinced that his vocal coach just sees him as some kid who’s kind of funny.

“Are you alright?” Ryan frowns, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and walking forward. “You look hot.”

Brendon nods quickly, giving a tiny noise as Ryan reaches forward and lays his hand across Brendon’s forehead.

“Hmm, you’re sort of warm. Maybe stop by the nurse’s office,” Ryan says. To Brendon’s surprise, he actually looks concerned.

“Yeah, yeah maybe I will,” Brendon mumbles, licking his lips; his mouth feels dry.

Ryan looks like he’s about to say something, but the bell rings overhead and he glances up. “Oh. Well, guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.” He smiles. “If you aren’t sick, don’t forget to do your exercises.”

“Sure thing, I won’t forget,” Brendon breathes, wiping his sweaty palms down his pants. “See you tomorrow!” he calls over his shoulder as he rushes out the door. He doesn’t wait for a response.

\---

Brendon spends the entire day thinking about Ryan. He wouldn’t call it an obsession, not really—he wouldn’t even call it a crush. He just thinks about Ryan and how pretty his eyes are and how they sparkle when he laughs, and how long and graceful his fingers are as he plays the piano, and how soft his hair looks, and how when he says Brendon’s name, it’s always in this sort of affectionate monotone that makes Brendon’s heart trip for a second. Okay, maybe he has a small, insignificant crush.

Except that after he’s called out twice in two different classes for not paying attention (read: daydreaming about kissing Ryan) and then realizes he’s doodled ‘Brendon Ross’ all over his math test, he can admit that, perhaps, it’s more than a small crush. By the time he steps off the bus and into his house, he’s finally come to terms that he’s got it for Ryan— _bad_.

“Hey, honey, how was your day?” his mother chirps from the kitchen.

“Fine.” Brendon sighs, dropping his bag on the ground next to the door and trudging down the hall.

“Take your things upstairs, Brendon. What do I always tell you?” Mrs. Urie calls over her shoulder.

“Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” Brendon mutters underneath his breath, turning around to grab the strap of his bag before dragging it behind him.

“That’s right, now come on. I’ve got your snack on the table; you can start your homework.”

Brendon rolls his eyes, falling into a chair at the kitchen table. “Mom, I’m almost seventeen; I don’t need snacks. I’m not a baby,” he grumbles, though he still picks up one half of the PB&J on the plate in front of him.

“Good nutrition isn’t just for babies, Brendon. Now eat your snack and get started on your school work,” Mrs. Urie says firmly.

Brendon sighs, but he sure as hell doesn’t argue because while his mother can be the sweetest woman he knows, she also takes no shit and hates back talk with a passion that rivals that of a Bible-thumping preacher at a pride parade.

After an hour or so of Brendon scribbling history notes in a spiral notebook and pretending that he isn’t thinking about Ryan’s long fingers laced with his while his mother washes dishes, she walks over and gently rests her hand on his hair.

“Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?” Her voice is soft and gentle, the hand in his hair the same.

Brendon looks up, frowning. “Nothing is bothering me.”

Mrs. Urie arches a brow and Brendon immediately reads her expression as the one that crosses her face whenever he’s about to be read bible verses about lying—or whatever sin he’s committing at the time.

“I’m just stressed is all, school is… a lot right now.” It isn’t _necessarily_ a lie; Ryan is at school, and Brendon’s lessons are a part of school, and that’s very stressful.

Grace nods, gently pushing her fingers through Brendon’s hair. “I understand. I’m proud of you, you know? You’ve been working so hard.” She smiles brightly.

Brendon smiles back, even if it’s only half-hearted. “Thank you.”

“I love you,” his mother whispers, leaning down to lightly press her lips against her son’s forehead before pulling back. “Go ahead and go upstairs, you can finish your work there. I’ll call you down for dinner.”

Brendon nods and stands, packing his things up and drinking down the last of his chocolate milk (he can hear Ryan chastising him for drinking something that isn’t tea or water) before wiping his mouth and running up the stairs.

Once in his room, he tosses his backpack away and flops onto his bed, sighing softly. He lays his head on his folded arms, staring off into space as he thinks about how actually pathetic he’s being. He’s had crushes on guys before, hell, he’s had crushes on guys that his friends were dating before. This isn’t any different. Ryan is just a guy. Except… Ryan _isn’t_ just a guy. He’s a guy who looks at Brendon like he may actually make it, like he stands a chance at being who he wants to be. Ryan’s a guy who laughs at Brendon’s stupid jokes and has the same taste in music as him, and who says Brendon’s name like he isn’t just a bother. Ryan’s different, and Brendon is absolutely fucking fucked.

A vibration jitters against his thigh and Brendon jerks, getting up to fish his phone out of his pocket.

_‘Feeling any better?’_

Brendon blinks, eyes widening. It’s from Ryan. Ryan’s actually texting him to ask how he’s feeling. Ryan is _worried about him._

His fingers shake as he taps out a response, but there’s an idiotic grin across his face and he’s having to stifle the giggles bubbling in his chest.

_‘Yeah, I think I was just dehydrated. I’m home now and I feel fine.’_

He feels better than fine, holy _shit_. Ryan Ross is texting him to make sure he’s okay.

_‘You’re not drinking enough water. Unless you want to completely fuck yourself and your voice over, chug down some H2O, asshole’_

Brendon snickers to himself, cheeks flushing. He can just hear Ryan’s voice berating him, his brow furrowed and frustration etched into his features, though his eyes sparkle with something like amusement.

_‘Will do, I’ll even drink that nasty ass tea you bought me.’_

He wrinkles his nose, frowning slightly. That’s a lie, he absolutely will _not_ be drinking that tea; it tastes like boiled garbage with some fish thrown in that’s been mixed around with gym socks. Ryan doesn’t need to know that, though.

_‘Call it nasty all you want, you’ll be thanking me when you’re singing like a goddamn angel.’_

Brendon snorts and rolls onto his back, lifting his phone over his face and grinning.

_‘I already sing like a goddamn angel, this shit better make me sing like literal actual Mercury.’_

_‘You’re Bowie, I’m Mercury, remember?’_

Brendon blinks and actually squeaks, his face now a bright, hot red. He has to take a moment breathing deep like he does for his vocal exercises.

_‘Right, right, I forgot. My bad :P’_

If Ryan keeps it up like this, he’s actually going to have a heart attack. People in Heaven—or wherever he ends up—will ask how he died and he’ll have to say, “Oh, my super hot vocal coach kept sending me adorable text messages and I went into cardiac arrest.”

_‘Yeah well, rest up and I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t forget to do your scales tonight, too. B major, alright?’_

_‘Roger.’_

_‘See you tomorrow. Night, B’_

Brendon grins, staring up at his phone screen for a long while. At least, until there’s a sharp knock at his door and he promptly drops his phone onto his face and cries out.

“Brendon! Dinner is ready!” his mother calls.

Brendon whines and rubs at the bridge of his nose, checking his fingertips for blood. “Alright, I’ll be down in a second.”

“Don’t forget to wash your hands!” Mrs. Urie hums before the noise of her footsteps on the stairs sounds and fades away.

Brendon sighs and sits up, giving one last look to his phone and smiling briefly. He just has to get to tomorrow for his _slight_ infatuation to be sated again.

\---

The next morning Brendon wakes to the smell of bacon wafting up to his room and he sighs softly, stretching and kicking his blankets off. All night he’d had weird dreams about Ryan yelling at him for not doing his vocal exercises and chasing him with a giant treble clef.

As he sits up and rubs his eyes, yawning so wide his jaw cracks, there’s a short buzz and he turns to scoop his phone up off the nightstand.

_‘Don’t forget to have some tea before you get here ;)’_

Brendon gives a small smile.

_‘If I drink that shit, I won’t make it there at all.’_

Sliding down off of his bed and laying on the floor, flat on his back, Brendon sets his phone next to his head. He rests his hands over his stomach, fingers pointing down towards his bellybutton, and takes a sbreathdeep peath. Once he feels his chest expand and his stomach rise, he exhales while counting to five. After doing that ten times, he pushes back up and grins at Ryan’s text.

_‘If you don’t make it here then I guess I don’t have to give you the treat I planned on picking up on my way.’_

Brendon suppresses a wide smile by biting down hard on his bottom lip, burying his face in his hands for a moment before shaking his head and making himself reply.

_‘If I get there and it’s something super lame, I’m suing you.’_

“Brendon, you’d better be awake or I’m coming with the water bucket!” Mrs. Urie’s voice rings out from downstairs.

“I’m up, I’m up!” Brendon cries quickly. He knows his mother isn’t bluffing; he’d tried calling it once and had been the one made to change his soaking sheets after.

“Breakfast is ready, honey, better get a move on!” his mother chirps.

Brendon roll his eyes, but grabs his phone and a towel that’s hanging off the back of his chair and trudges off towards the bathroom. Once he finishes with his shower (that he _doesn’t_ jerk off in to the thought of Ryan, but only because he knows if he takes too long, his mother will come knocking) and puts on clean clothes, he grabs his backpack and goes down to the kitchen.

“Your plate’s on the table, Brendon. Did you finish your homework last night?” Mrs. Urie asks, wiping down the counter before turning to plant a kiss on her son’s head.

Brendon turns, frowning slightly at the table. The eggs and pancakes are fine, but the bacon... “Ma, you know I don’t—”

“I’m not having this argument with you again. Eat your breakfast and get your shoes on. The bus will be here soon,” Mrs. Urie says firmly.

Brendon sighs softly, flopping down into his seat and taking a bite of his eggs. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out, glancing at the screen.

_‘Suing me for what? The two cents in my wallet and my guitars?’_

“No phones at the table, Brendon, you know that.” His mother snatches the phone out of his hand and gazes down at him, one hand on her hip and a brow arched severely.

“But Mom—!”

“Are you sassing me, mister?” Mrs. Urie’s eyebrow arches ever higher and Brendon ducks his head.

“No ma’am,” he mumbles, lightly kicking at the floor and shoving a forkful of eggs in his mouth.

“You can have it back once you’re finished,” Mrs. Urie says simply, dropping the phone in her apron pocket and going back to filling the dishwasher.

Brendon grits his teeth, but doesn’t say anything back and instead shovels food in his mouth like it’s his last meal. Just as he’s pushing the bacon off of his plate and onto the floor, the loud _whoosh_ of the school bus stopping outside sounds and he looks up.

“Phone, Mom, I need my phone, the bus is here!” he says quickly, shoving his feet into his shoes and slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

“Okay, have a good day, sweetie.” Mrs. Urie smiles, fishing the phone out of her pocket and handing it over.

“Yeah, I will, see you later,” Brendon says, snatching the phone up and rushing out the door. “Love you!”

His mother’s response is cut short by the slamming of the door.

\---

“Alright, Ross, where’s my treat?” Brendon asks, shutting the door closed carefully behind him and tossing his backpack away.

“You sound like a five-year-old. ‘Where’s my treat?’ You need positive reinforcement for everything?” Ryan asks, head popping up from behind the piano.

“Yes,” Brendon says simply. “Now where’s my treat, fucker?”

Ryan rolls his eyes, but points to a paper bag that’s sitting atop a stool next to the piano. “Did you drink the tea?”

“ _‘Did you drink the tea?’_ No, I didn’t drink your nasty trash tea, shut up,” Brendon mumbles, opening the back and peeking inside. “I had a long morning, my mother made fucking—a _donut_!” he cries, pulling out the pastry with a wide grin and immediately tearing a bite out.

“You’re welcome,” Ryan hums. “I know you’ve been working really hard lately so I figured you deserve a reward.”

Brendon beams, licking glaze off of his lips. “Fank you,” he says, blushing brightly as crumbs spray out of his mouth.

“No problem. Now finish that up and we’ll work on scales first. Then I was thinking we could talk talent show.” Ryan pushes up and pulls sheet music out of his backpack, setting it on the piano and sitting down.

“Talent show?” Brendon tilts his head, taking another bite and plopping down onto the stool, watching Ryan.

He always looks so graceful when he plays piano, even though he swears he can only play enough to accompany Brendon’s exercises. His hair falls into his eyes when he gets lost in it, and Brendon wonders if he can even see or if he’s just playing with his heart at that point, all thought out the window. His fingers were made for piano too, all long and graceful and lithe. Sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—Ryan will even hum along to the notes Brendon’s singing, his voice merging with Brendon’s and creating the most beautiful harmony.

“Yeah, listen, you’ve been getting really good, and you want to be a famous singer, right? Like on Broadway or something?” Ryan glances up. “So if you’re serious about that—”

“I’m serious about it,” Brendon says quickly.

Ryan nods. “Right, well, you’re going to have to get used to performing in front of people that aren’t me.”

Brendon frowns, ducking his head and staring down at the half-eaten donut in his hand. “But I haven’t even performed in front of you.”

Sure he’s done scales and diction exercises and such, and maybe he’s sung a few showtunes just to present his range, but he’s never _performed_ for Ryan. He’s never performed for anyone but himself in his mirror in his room when he’s home alone.

Ryan arches a brow, and for a moment he looks quite like Brendon’s mother—enough so that Brendon feels a shudder run down his spine. “So why don’t you perform for me, then?”

Brendon blinks and he actually drops his donut. He doesn’t even reach down to retrieve it, he just stares at Ryan like he’s just sprouted two heads. “ _What?_ ”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic. I’m your vocal coach, Brendon, come on. If you can’t perform in front of me, who can you perform for?” Ryan asks, crossing his arms.

“No one! That’s the point!” Brendon cries.

“Well then how are you going to be on Broadway? You do know that involves performing for people, right? _Lots_ of people,” Ryan deadpans.

Brendon swallows and nervously tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. He does know that, of course, but ever since he decided he wanted to be a real, professional singer, he just sort of hoped the part where he had to sing his heart out in front of hundreds if not thousands of people would kind of… go away. It isn’t that he has stage fright, of course—how on Earth could a Broadway star (or rockstar, he hasn’t decided yet) have stage fright? He just gets really sweaty and nauseous and feels like he’s going to pass out whenever he thinks of singing in front of anyone.

“Well, yeah… I know. I’m just not there yet, is all,” Brendon mumbles, clasping his hands behind his back and twisting them.

“Well, you’re going to have to get there sooner or later, so let’s make it sooner. I already signed you up for it, so we may as well start practicing.” Ryan’s smile is smug and briefly, Brendon imagines kissing the thing right off of Ryan’s face just to show him.

“You did _what_?” Brendon shrieks.

“It’s in April, so we’ve got two months,” Ryan says, as if he hadn’t just announced that he decided to completely ruin Brendon’s life.

“I’m not doing it,” Brendon says flatly, bending down to pick up his fallen donut.

“You are if you want me to keep coaching you.” Ryan shrugs, shuffling his papers and playing a few notes on the piano. He glances up at Brendon, something in his eyes that Brendon can’t quite read. “I’m not going to waste my time if you’re not serious about this.”

Brendon blinks and he stares at Ryan for a long while, trying to discern if he could be bluffing. For some reason he thinks of his mother throwing cold water over him as he sleeps, and so he sighs and nods. “Fine. I guess I’ll do it.”

“Good. Now come on, do red leather yellow leather.” Ryan nods, scribbling something down on one of the pieces of sheet music.

Brendon shakes his head. “Wait, just lemme finish my donut,” he says quickly, shoving half of it in his mouth.

Ryan looks up, eyebrows flying up into his hair. “Brendon, that was on the _floor!_ ”

Brendon snorts. “You think I’d waste this delicacy? My mother has bought donuts two times in my life, once when I got my tonsils taken out and could finally eat solid food, and the other when my pet turtle died. I don’t have a turtle or tonsils, but I do have this donut so I’m gonna cherish it.”

Ryan wrinkles his nose and shakes his head, but Brendon just laughs.

\---

“So, I’m going to be in the talent show.” Brendon idly pushes chunks of chicken around noodles in the bowl of broth before him. He’s tried just eating the pasta, but it still tastes like the meat and he can’t help but think it's all been tainted.

“Oh?” His mother looks up from the crossword she’s doing across from him.

Brendon nods, not raising his head from its place resting on his hand.

“Baby, that’s great! Are you going to sing? You know I’ve told you God gave you a gift. You just have to use it,” Mrs. Urie hums, glancing back down and tapping the end of her pencil against her cheek.

“It isn’t like I don’t want to, Ma, it’s just that I’m not good enough yet. I wanna be good before I let people hear me.” Brendon finally lifts his head to look at his mother. “I don’t want to embarrass myself.”

Grace looks up, tilting her head and considering him for a moment. “I know you don’t believe me, or any of your pothers and sisters, _or_ anyone at the church, but you are good enough. Your voice is beautiful, and I think that you’ve got potential to do something great with it, even if I don’t know what that is,” she says finally. “But you’ve got to take chances. You’ll never know if you’re ‘good enough’ if you don’t try, honey. And if you really want to make something out of singing and being a musician, you can’t just spend your time belting out songs on the radio in the shower.”

Brendon blinks and feels himself flush, ducking his head. “I know that,” he mumbles. “I’m just...I’m just not ready yet.”

“Then why are you doing the talent show if you think you’re not ready?” Mrs. Urie asks softly, going back to her puzzle now.

“It’s not like I have much of a choice,” Brendon mutters, grabbing his spoon again and resuming the act of firmly _not_ eating. “Ryan told me I had to or else he’d stop doing lessons with me. Said he didn’t want to ‘waste his time’ if I wasn’t going to do something.” As bitter as he feels, though, Brendon knows that Ryan is right and it isn’t fair of him to expect the senior to teach him if he isn’t going to actually use the lessons to further himself. Still, right or not, Brendon can’t help but feeling irritated and a little scorned.

“Good for him. At least someone is pushing you,” Mrs. Urie hums.

Brendon huffs and pushes his bowl away, going to the fridge to find something someone didn’t have to kill to eat. “You’re supposed to be on _my_ side.”

“I am on your side. You just can’t see that because you’re too busy feeling sorry for yourself. Now, what’s an eight-letter word for rain shower?” she murmurs, frowning just slightly as she chews on the pencil’s eraser.

“Downpour.” Brendon sighs, shaking his head. “As in ‘When I make a fool of myself at the talent show, there will be a _downpour_ of laughter.’”

“Oh honey, don’t be so dramatic. I put new sheets on your bed, so make sure you shower before you get in it,” his mother calls as he pushes the fridge door shut and goes for the stairs. “And if I find one single crumb in that room, mister, you’re in for it!”

Brendon snorts and shakes his head. “I’m already in for it.”

\---

“You must be joking,” Brendon says flatly.

“I’m sorry, do I _look_ like I’m joking?” Ryan asks, arching a brow and folding his arms over his chest.

“This is not princess practice! I’m not a fucking princess!” Brendon cries, throwing his arms in the air.

“Are you sure? Because you sure are acting entitled like one,” Ryan scoffs. “Would you like me to see if the theater department has any tiaras to spare?”

Brendon glares.

“Come on, stand up straight.” Ryan snaps his fingers, picking up a pile of books off the piano bench and stepping forward. “We’re gonna make you absolutely perfect for that show, no room for mistakes,” he hums, lightly setting one book on Brendon’s head and balancing it.

Brendon stands rigid, fists still by his side and shaking slightly. He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep, slow breath and letting it out. His fingers loosen and he opens his eyes. _No room for mistakes._ He tells himself that nearly every day, that’s why he doesn’t want to do this show. There’s still just too many mistakes.

“Okay, now I’m going to stand over here,” Ryan says, holding the rest of the books against his chest and walking back to stand against the far wall. “And you come walk to me, alright? Don’t let the book fall.”

Brendon nods and immediately the book slides down his nose and smacks against the floor.

Ryan snickers. “What did I just say?”

“Sorry, sorry, won’t happen again,” Brendon mumbles, bending down to pick the book up. “ _Invisible Monsters?_ ” He looks up.

Ryan’s cheeks brighten to a nice pink. “Ah, yeah. I, uh, just grabbed whatever I could find, you know?”

Brendon grins. “What’s this even about?”

Ryan blinks and his eyes widen. “It’s a _masterpiece!_ ” he breathes. “It has everything: love, betrayal, larceny—”

“Like _The Princess Bride_ ,” Brendon interjects.

Ryan’s cheeks go from pink to a deep, indignant red. “ _Not_ like _The Princess Bride_!” he cries. “ _The Princess Bride_ is—is—is a _child’s_ book!”

Brendon shrugs. “I liked it pretty alright.”

Ryan scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Brendon, _Invisible Monsters_ compared to The Princess Bride is like comparing… Friday the 13th to The Mighty Ducks.”

Brendon grins, placing the book back on his head. “So I guess you would say comparing the two is… _inconceivable?_ ”

Ryan glares darkly. “Just walk over to me before I beat you with one of these,” he says, raising up one of the books and waving it threateningly in Brendon’s direction.

Brendon shrugs and takes a step forward. “As you wish.”

\---

Brendon rubs his eyes and groans as he slides down the wall to sit on the floor. “Ross, it’s _late_. I wanna go _home_. I’m _hungry_.”

“You just ate, Brendon. I watched you scarf down that meatball sub like you hadn’t eaten in days,” Ryan mumbles, scribbling down something in his notes that Brendon can’t see.

He always has that little notebook on him, writing something down like if he doesn’t get it on paper immediately, it’ll disappear forever into the abyss. Sometimes he’ll watch Brendon practicing or doing exercises and then pull his notebook out and whatever there is near to write with and jot whatever it is down. Every time Brendon asks what he’s writing, Ryan just shrugs and mumbles ‘nothing.’

“That was six fucking hours ago. I was supposed to be home at three! You’re lucky my mom thinks you’re a good influence or some shit,” Brendon growls.

Ryan laughs and finally lifts his head to look at Brendon. “I’m sure if she actually met me instead of only talked to me on the phone, she’d feel differently. I’m not exactly the type parents are begging their kids to bring home.”

Brendon blushes, looking down at his shoes. He’d be more than happy to bring Ryan home to his parents— they could think what they wanted, he wouldn’t care.

“Look, go grab something from the vending machines. I’ll give you money; you have five minutes,” Ryan says, pulling his wallet out of his pocket and tossing it to Brendon.

“Five mi—you’re insane! You’re going to fucking kill me before the show even happens!” Brendon cries, catching the wallet and standing despite himself.

Ryan laughs. “The show is _tomorrow_. I’m sure you can survive until then. Whatever happens after that… well, I’ll be graduating in a month.”

Brendon blinks, eyes widening. He can feel something hard sink down into his stomach, sitting hot and heavy and making him feel sick. The show is tomorrow. No more lessons after that, and Ryan’s leaving in a month. He’ll be going off to college, disappearing and never to return while Brendon remains a mediocre singer cursed to walk these halls for another two years in misery, alone.

“Time’s ticking, B, better run if you want the time to eat whatever junk you pick out,” Ryan chides, tapping his wrist.

Brendon nods and runs out the door, for once eager to get away from Ryan to gather his thoughts. The halls around him are dark and cold now that everyone’s gone. The only reason he and Ryan got to stay was because Ryan insisted to Principal Hubler that it was incredibly important to Brendon’s lessons that they have a little extra time after school. A little extra time turned into over three hours and now the only light Brendon has to see by comes from the music room behind him and the moonlight beginning to filter through the clouds out the window. Everything is tinted a soft, dark blue and the vending machine is a large black shadow in front of him.

He barely notices whatever buttons he’s smashing down on the machine. Something falls behind the glass and he reaches down, snatching it up and slowly making his way back to Ryan. What was he even thinking? That Ryan would fall in love with him across the few months they’ve been doing this? It isn’t like they’ve even spent every waking hour together; they only spend an hour each morning doing lessons. An hour a day across a few months…

Brendon shakes his head, snorting. “You’re a fucking idiot, Urie,” he mumbles to himself, tugging the bag of chips in his hands open. “And even if he did, you think he’d stay here after he graduates? For _you?_ ” He gives a bitter laugh as heads toward the golden rectangle coming from the music room’s cracked door.

“What’s so funny?” Ryan asks, putting his notebook in his backpack.

Brendon looks up, popping a chip in his mouth. “Nothing,” he murmurs. “Was just thinking.”

Ryan nods. “Yeah, well, I’m not paying you to think,” he teases. “I’m paying you to become a famous rockstar and then credit all of your success to me.”

Brendon arches a brow. “You’re not paying me at all.”

Ryan grins. “Well, maybe so. But people tend to pay for lessons like these, and I’m doing it out of the goodness of my heart, so that’s kind of like paying you.”

Brendon crunches down on another chip, not saying anything. He got French Onion. He fucking hates French Onion.

Ryan’s expression seems to falter for a moment as he looks at Brendon. “So, uh, I guess we can call it a night? You’ve been working really hard lately, get some rest tonight, huh? I’ll see you in the morning?”

Brendon nods. “Yeah, I’ll call my mom to come get me.”

“I could drop you off at your house,” Ryan offers, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

Brendon nearly chokes on his disgusting chips. “ _What?_ ”

“You’re not so far from my house, right? It’s no big deal, I don’t even think you’re out of my way,” Ryan says, stepping past Brendon and motioning for him to follow. “Come on, I have to lock up or Biss is gonna kill me.”

Brendon walks out the door and watches as Ryan flicks the light off and fumbles for his keys. “You have a key to the music room?” he murmurs.

“Not if Hubler asks,” Ryan chuckles. “But I like to come in earlier than Mrs. Biss wants to, so she finally just gave me a key so I could stop sitting outside the room waiting.”

Brendon nods and follows after Ryan as they walk down the empty halls. “It’s so quiet.”

“Yeah, it’s nice. I like when it’s like this. It’s almost as if it’s an entirely different place, huh?” Ryan looks around, the moonlight now bright through the windows and lighting up Ryan’s face as he passes by each one. His skin brightens and darkens alternately as he walks through the shadows between the glass.

“Yeah, a different place. Like a ghost town. Or, a ghost school,” Brendon laughs softly. Their voices sound super loud compared to the silence around them.

Ryan pushes the exit doors open and holds one open for Brendon as he walks out. “My car’s the...well, the only one here,” Ryan laughs, pointing.

“Ryan, I really don’t know…” Brendon runs a hand through his hair.

“I already talked to your mom, if that’s what’s wrong.” Ryan turns to look at Brendon, his face almost completely obscured by the shadows. “But I mean, if you’re not comfortable, I totally get that too. I can call your mom again and have her come get you and I’ll wait with you if you want.”

Brendon can’t help but be thankful for the darkness surrounding them as his face heats up. “You called my mom?”

“Is that weird?” Ryan suddenly looks incredibly embarrassed and a little nervous, his brow furrowing. “I just thought you seemed stressed. I was trying to help, I’m sorry.”

Brendon shakes his head. “No, no it’s okay. Thank you, seriously. I’m ready to go home. Let’s go,” he says, nodding towards the car. “How’d you afford that anyways?”

Ryan grins as he opens Brendon’s door for him, shutting it carefully behind him before sliding into the driver’s seat and turning the car on. “It was my dad’s. He doesn’t drive much anymore though, so he gave it to me and I just drive him around whenever he needs to go somewhere.” As Ryan pulls his seatbelt across his chest and clicks it in, there’s something in his eyes that Brendon can’t quite read. Sadness, maybe, or defeat.

“That’s cool. I don’t even have my license yet. I just turned seventeen, but mom is terrified I’ll get in some horrible car accident and die.” He rolls his eyes, glancing out the window as Ryan pulls out onto the street.

“It’s nice, being able to go wherever you want. Freeing. I could just take this car and a couple of things and drive forever, if I wanted to,” Ryan murmurs, almost wistfully as he stops at a light.

“Is...that what you’re gonna do? Once you graduate?” Brendon asks, tugging at his bottom lip and turning to look at Ryan’s profile.

Ryan shrugs. “I don’t really know what I’ll do. I can’t just immediately jet off, as much as I’d like to. Maybe I’ll go to college, maybe I’ll keep giving voice lessons, I don’t know. I guess I’d better figure it out soon, though, huh?” He gives what sounds like a forced laugh, driving through the intersection once the light is green.

“Guess so,” Brendon murmurs. “That’s my neighborhood,” he adds, pointing to the entrance.

Ryan flicks on his blinker and turns.

“That one, with the white Corolla,” Brendon says after a moment.

Ryan pulls to a stop, fingers drumming lightly on the wheel. “So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Brendon nods, grabbing his backpack and opening the door. “Yeah, thanks for the ride.”

“Bren, seriously, get some rest. You’ll only be worse off tomorrow night if you spend all of tonight up worrying,” Ryan tells him.

“Yeah, no, I will. I’ll sleep. Goodnight, Ryan,” Brendon says softly.

“Night, Brendon.”

For a long moment, Brendon just gazes at Ryan and, almost too quick to catch, his eyes flick to Ryan's lips. However, he simply shakes his head and pushes out of the car, shouldering his backpack and giving a little wave to Ryan. After he’s shut the door, Brendon watches as Ryan’s tail lights slowly disappear into the night. Still, he stands and watches where the car was long after the hazy red glow has faded.

\---

“Brendon, you’re on in ten.”

Brendon’s head whips around to catch the stage manager—a girl with dark hair sharply cut just above her chin and too much eyeliner dressed all in black—nod to him. He nods back, though he chews nervously at his bottom lip. It’s started to bleed, but he doesn’t taste the tangy copper or notice the sting. There’s so many people; he managed to get a peek out of the gap between the curtains and the wall and nearly passed out. He couldn’t see any faces because of the lights pointed right at the stage, but he could see enough to know it was too much. He isn’t ready, he was stupid to ever think he could do it—stupid for letting fucking _Ryan_ convince him.

Glancing back towards the stage where a group is dancing to Beyonce, Brendon picks nervously at the seam of his pants. No, he definitely can’t do this. He’ll find someone to drive him home, hell, he’ll call his mom in the crowd and tell her to meet him at the front if he has to.

“Brendon!” Ryan’s voice comes in a hushed cry from behind him causing him to jerk and whirl around.

“R-Ryan,” He whispers.

The boy is dressed in black jeans and a white button down, hair combed and neat for once and a skinny black tie resting against his chest. His hands are clasped behind his back but he leans eagerly towards Brendon.

“You look…” Nice? Beautiful? Breathtaking? Brendon’s not sure what to say.

“Yeah, well, Biss told me I needed to dress up for this thing so it was this or a fucking suit of my dad’s and that sure as hell wasn’t happening, so,” Ryan shrugs. “Are you ready?”

Brendon swallows, eyes flicking back towards the stage. Single Ladies is nearly done and it feels like with each passing “Oh-oh-oh” he’s getting closer to throwing up.

“Ryan, I can’t do it.” Brendon turns back.

Ryan blinks, looking startled for a moment, but he just shakes his head. “Of course you can,” he says easily. “I’ve seen you, you’ve worked so hard for this, you’re going to do great.”

“No, I’m serious, I can’t do this. I’m gonna get sick or pass out or—or—”

Ryan reaches out and clasps a hand on Brendon’s shoulder firmly. “Brendon. You can’t psych yourself out or else you really will do something like that. You just have to get up on stage, clear your head, and sing your heart out.”

Brendon sighs, dropping his gaze down to his shiny black shoes. His mother bought them new just for this, but claimed they could be used for church after so it wasn’t a wasteful purchase. “You make it sound so easy,” he mumbles.

“Okay, look, here. I got you this,” Brendon looks up and sees that Ryan has pulled a bright red rose from behind his back and is offering it proudly forward. “For good luck. Usually, you give these after the performance, but you seem like you could use it now.”

Brendon stares for a long moment, eyes trained on each crimson petal and the long stem caught between Ryan’s thin fingers. “What....what game are you playing at?” he breathes, finally looking back up at Ryan.

Confusion flits across Ryan’s features and his proud smile falters. “W-what? What do you mean?”

“You spend all this time with me and stay late too, and then you drive me home and now _flowers?_ ” Brendon frowns. “Why?”

Ryan blinks and opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it again like he doesn’t know what to do.

“I know I’m not special, okay, and I know you just have to tell me I am for encouragement and stuff so I’ll keep trying and you can keep your job, but I mean this is overboard. What are you _playing_ at?” Brendon repeats, now looking at Ryan through the blur of angry tears. “Do you like me? ‘Cause I’ve liked you for a really, _really_ long time and I tried just hiding it but even I can only take so much. You’re leaving soon, and if this is just some fucked up joke or something...” Brendon shakes his head, wiping furiously at his cheeks.

“Brendon, I—”

“And now to sing Frank Sinatra’s ‘My Way,’ Brendon Urie!”

Brendon’s eyes go wide and his breath hitches in his throat. Nausea rolls through his stomach like waves during a storm and he can feel the blood drain from his face. He looks up at Ryan helplessly, but Ryan is looking down at him like he’s suddenly completely foreign.

“Brendon!” the stage manager hisses. “You’re up!”

Brendon’s eyes flick from her to Ryan and back again, and before he can register what’s happening he’s running. The shouts of his name echo in his ear, but they seem far away, as if his ears were plugged or he were underwater. He keeps running, ignoring how his dress shoes are already rubbing against his sock uncomfortably. He pushes through the door and gasps in the cold night air, but still doesn’t stop. He just keeps running.

\---

Brendon’s heart pounds as he walks down the hall and towards the music room. He’s shaking, and his breath is coming in short little gusts, but he told himself he would do this and he’ll be fucking damned if he chickens out now. It’s been two weeks since the disaster at the talent show and he hasn’t spoken to Ryan once. Sure, he’s gotten copious amounts of texts from his (former?) vocal coach asking if he’s okay or begging to talk, but those stopped a few days ago and Brendon’s only gotten radio silence since. After his mother picked him up a few blocks away from his neighborhood and took him home—berating him on the ride about how disappointed she was and alternating between lectures on responsibility and almost crying about how worried she was—he’d just gone to his room and went to sleep. At school the next day it felt like everyone was staring at him, but he’d ignored it the best he could and kept his head down. Of course there was talk and a few kids even asked him what his problem was or if he was okay, but by that Friday he was just another choir kid with a handful of acquaintances and too much homework. The only difference was that he didn’t get up early to go see Ryan every day anymore. In fact, he actively avoided the entire music wing of the school unless it was for choir class—until now, at least.

Now, he pushes the door open to the music room and tries not to seem too surprised to see Ryan sitting at the piano bench scribbling in his ever-present notebook.

After a moment, he looks up and his eyes widen to the size of saucers, lips parting. His pen drops to the ground, but he doesn’t move to pick it up.

“So, I know I left things… not good,” Brendon says, steeling himself for what’s coming. “And that was wrong of me. I blew up on you, and that wasn’t fair, and I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I made you look like an idiot by running away from the talent show. But, um, I came to try and make it up to you. It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve really got right now.”

Ryan looks like he wants to say something, but Brendon quickly shakes his head.

“Just let me finish, and then you can yell at me or tell me to get out or, you know, whatever,” Brendon pleads.

Ryan doesn’t say anything, but he shuts his mouth and sits back, waiting.

Brendon nods and steps forward, clasping his hands behind his back and standing up straight before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “ _Pressure_ —pushing down on me, pushing down on you, no man ask for; under pressure that brings a building down, splits a family in two, puts people on streets.” He takes another breath, not opening his eyes. His hands shake but his voice is steady so he can at least be grateful for that. “It’s the terror of knowing what this world is about, watching some good friends screaming ‘let me out,’ pray tomorrow gets me hi—”

Before he can finish a pair of lips is crushed against his own and Brendon gasps, eyes flying open.

Ryan pulls back, though he keeps Brendon’s face cradled in his hands. There’s quiet for a moment, the only noise Brendon can here is of his own heart pounding in his ears.

“What was that for?” Brendon finally whispers.

“Because that was beautiful,” Ryan whispers back. “And I’m honored that you would give that to me.”

Brendon swallows, eyes flicking down to Ryan’s lips and back up to his shining eyes. “Does this mean you like me?”

Ryan’s lips twitch in a smile and gives a small laugh. “Yeah, I like you. You didn’t give me a chance to say anything before you ran away, but I like you. I like everything about you; I like your beautiful voice and your pretty mouth and your stunning eyes—”

Brendon gives an awkward giggle, face flushing.

“I’m serious,” Ryan says firmly, pressing his forehead against Brendon’s. “I like you, but I didn’t tell you because this is supposed to be strictly professional, and if we’re being honest I don’t even know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t know if I’m staying or going or what, and I don’t want you to get mixed up in that.”

Brendon frowns slightly, thinking for a moment. “Well, I think I want to get mixed up in it. Even if you do go away, long distance isn’t impossible, right?”

Ryan looks surprised, but he smiles all the same. “Right.”

“So, um, let’s not know what we’re doing with our lives together?” Brendon offers.

Ryan grins and leans down to kiss Brendon again, his lips soft and sweet and gentle. “I’d like that.”


End file.
